When did I grow up?
Adjusting the wrinkled sleeves of a bone-white shirt I found for 5 euros in a thrift shop, I gazed up at woman mirroring my move. The reflection hosted familiar eyes, yet the depths of them belonged to someone else. An odd blend of agitation and enchantment interlaced in my eyes, merging because of the vision before them. A brow lifted and fell with the hand I had used to alter the fit of the wear, questioning the imposter in the mirror.
I do not wear shirts. Never, I said to myself, close to denial. But my words of lies were deceived by the vivacity in my eyes. Still, I refused to be fooled. It wasn’t until the sensuality of a creamy dream clung to my bare flesh that I dealt with the alternation in my identity. The plain shirt and a blazer painted in the most impeccable shade of beige introduced me to a new fashion landscape. I have now dedicated a section of my wardrobe to the Scandinavian aesthetic, coming to terms with the fact that my stylistic approach has grown up and entered a new, alluring dimension of style.